


The Intended

by ChecktheHolonet



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Mention of bloodplay (this is a vampire fic), Oral Sex, Shy Ben Solo, Smut, Soft Ben Solo, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Vampires, Vampires Mate for Life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:42:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26857648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChecktheHolonet/pseuds/ChecktheHolonet
Summary: “What is it you want?” she asks, caught in his spell as his lips dust her wrist, tease her palm.“You,” he answers.“Are you sure you know what you’re getting into?” she asks.--In which there is no statute of limitations on arranged marriages.Or...Coincidence remains one of life's greatest lies.
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 16
Kudos: 49
Collections: Reylo Readers & Writers - The Spooktacular Collection





	The Intended

**Author's Note:**

> This fic gets a bit bloody--it is, after all, a vampire fic. Tags to be updated as the story progresses.

The first time they meet, it’s an alley just outside the Museum of Modern Art. He watches her as she fiddles on her phone, fingers tapping quickly as he studies her from a respectful distance. Brisk October sunshine catches her hair, kisses her shoulders, caressing tender skin hidden away from the winter’s fading chill. An A-line dress, cinched tight around her breasts’ soft swell, bottoms out into miles of swishy, stylish fabric, the winking hemline just high enough to tease. _Silk_ , Ben thinks. The thought makes him absurdly pleased as he follows her legs down, down, down, her feet poured into high-heeled sandals that click against the warm asphalt. Her toenails glitter in the sun.

She shoots a smile his way and he laughs self-consciously, ducking his head to stare at his feet. All around them, humanity drifts by. The tide of people flows into the museum around the corner, gaping at expensive paintings, muttering sotto voce about their own intelligence, their studied appreciation of this or that random art piece. A benefit gala, easier to draw blood from a stone than to part millionaires from their pocketbooks.

They stare at each other, brick walls to their backs as laughing guests exit the building. They’d left at the same time, drifting out from the open mouth of the back door as the benefit dragged on. He’d seen her a few steps ahead of him, tilting her face towards the sun as she stretched her arms overhead. Ben draws a deep breath and steps closer. He can smell her perfume, sweet and spicy, a flower grown in a desert land.

She looks over her shoulder, flashing ivory teeth at him, her eyes dancing with mirth. He takes a few careful steps in her direction, coming to stand at her back, close enough to hear the quiet, measured breaths she takes.

“What’s your name?” he says, lips dipping just behind her ear.

She turns, stepping backward, skirt tsk-ing with disapproval. Sizing him up, one perfectly shaped eyebrow arched skyward, she says, “why do you want to know?”

He cocks his head a few degrees, puzzled, still caught up in that dress, still miles away from fantasy’s fruition. He blinks. Shuffles his feet. Tries again. “Um…I just...what’s your name, princess?”

She giggles then, high and soft and airy, and with a tiny grin she repeats, “Princess? Is THAT what you called me? Wow. Does that usually work on the first try?”

He looks away, heat flooding his face, eyes wrinkled like fabric, and mumbles an apology. She’s charmed, surprised by his awkward advances, flattered by his unfailing determination despite his embarrassment.

The silence stretched between them is thick and warm, more than enough to bask in, but he is anxious. Needy. Unbearably curious.

“Let me take you to dinner,” he says, reaching for her hand. He wraps his palm around short, slender fingers. His thumb brushes smooth, lacquered fingernails that he can feel in his scalp, against his thighs, tracing the dips and valleys in his spine. He holds her gaze, allowing her to see just a few of the secrets he’ll reveal in time. Her grin widens even further before she says “okay.”

Her name is Rey, and she says she's twenty-two. A baby, a youthful wisp of a girl with a darling accent and a mouthful of the whitest teeth he’s ever seen. She pulls out a cigarette as they walk, puffing heavily on the filter between lectures on Degas and Monet, and if she minds when Ben’s fingers curl around hers in the stark light of day, she says nothing. He watches her in rapt fascination, so absurdly pleased with himself at taking a chance. As her skirt whispers sinful promises and her eyes play with his, Ben’s smile widens just a bit. A shark swirling in shadowed water, waiting for a boat to stall.

He guides her down the crowded street to a nearly vacant coffee shop, hand-painted sign proclaiming “Threepio’s” in gaudy gold letters. The coffee is good, good but not great: overpriced and fastidious and everything protocol mandates. Rey orders orange juice and tips the barista when he sets it in front of her, murmuring thanks in a voice made for bed.

Ben catches himself wondering if her mouth will taste like oranges when he kisses her lips, sucks her tongue, tart and sweet and lush like summer. The glass remains untouched between them. Before he can stop himself, their hands are linked and he’s bringing her fingers to his mouth, just to taste.

“You are persistent, aren’t you?” she asks, but her voice holds nothing but kindness. When his tongue peeks out to slip along the edges of those perfectly groomed nails, she falls silent; cautious.

“What is it you want?” she asks, caught in his spell as his lips dust her wrist, tease her palm.

“You,” he answers.

“Are you sure you know what you’re getting into?” she asks.

When he leans forward to claim her mouth, she doesn’t object.

Night falls early in the city as the day slips by, the sidewalks chilled and damp as the streetlights flicker in warning. He leads her to a cool and silent car, a sleek black shuttle that purrs as the city races past. The driver closes a thick pane of glass with nary a sound, sealing the world outside.

In the cool leather refuge of the backseat, Ben dusts his lips against Rey’s neck, tongue stretching to touch, to feel. He groans deep in his throat, eager mouth cascading over her skin, drinking in her pleasured sighs. He fills his palms with her curves, tries to slake his unyielding thirst with a few meager sips of her body. Nonsense words fall from his lips like starlight. He pulls her closer in the darkness, cuddling her against his chest, legs blanketed in the fabric that really is as soft as it looks.

“I want you,” he murmurs. Simple, heartfelt confession; lust tempered with the sweetest longing. She brushes his hair away from his forehead, sharp teeth worried between her lips.

“Why?” she asks without malice or accusation.

He offers no answers and she makes no objections. As the car pulls up to the driveway of his townhouse, Ben feels his heart’s last chance at escape slipping away. Taking her hand, he invites her inside. Their clothes disappear and with them, his restraint.

Rey is beautiful nude. Hips gently tapered, breasts high and firm, belly soft where he cups a reverent palm across it, but full of strength beneath. He kisses her brazenly in the moonlight, soft slivers of silver filtering through the blinds, cloaking their skin in inky shadows, shielding them from the world’s prying gaze.

She is restless, pushing against his hand, guiding her fingers over the map of his body, dipping her mouth to kiss, to explore. He moans, throws his head back, locks his knees as her hand curls around his cock. When she whispers “watch me” soft and low he nearly comes, so fierce is his desire. Instead, he leans up against the wall, powerful hips pulsing helplessly toward her face. He keens, tenuous grip on restraint failing, hands tangling in her soft hair as she sucks him with smooth, precise motions. She brings him to the very edge of orgasm before pushing him over with the sweetest violence.

He cries out, hands clenched into fists, _fallingflyingstunned_ by an unnamable force, thrilling and absolute. She watches him with greedy eyes, dusts careful kisses against his brow as he reaches for her, tries to reciprocate. She laughs, eyes alight with affection, and promises, “later.”

When sleep comes, he goes without a fight, pleasure-drugged and languid, arms cradling her close to her chest.

He wakes, hours later, and she is gone, perfect dress still draped carefully over the burgundy fabric of the chaise lounge. Arching an eyebrow, he wonders what it means—whether she had stolen his shirt to clothe herself, or a towel, or simply left wearing nothing at all. Chuckling at the delicious mental image, he wonders not for the first time whether it had all been a dream; whether the bittersweet ending had come at too high a price. Only the sweet ache in his stomach and the damp sticky sheets remind him that it had all been too real.

It isn’t until he looks at himself in the mirror, the harsh bathroom light casting shadows against his pale skin, that he sees them:

Twin puncture wounds, crusted with blood and rimmed with red, marring the pale skin of his neck. Beneath them, a mark; quarter-sized and emblazoned with a strange, intricate symbol, livid-red and located just above his right pectoral.

 _What the fuck_ , Ben thinks, right before darkness claims him.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on Twitter (18+ only/NO MINORS): @ChecktheH


End file.
